


Turning Over the Sands of Time

by bbcphile



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Abuse of Power, Flashbacks, Flogging, M/M, Missing Scene, Past Rape/Non-con, Regency language mixed with stream of consciousness because why not?, Renown fic, Shifting Sands fic challenge, Suicidal Ideation, The universe shouldn't torture Archie so much, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 10:53:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10534998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbcphile/pseuds/bbcphile
Summary: “It’s an injustice, Horatio.”Witnessing one cruel beating recalls the remains of another, ten years past, that Archie had hoped was long dead and buried under the sands of time.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Shifting Sands Hornblower fic challenge on LiveJournal (http://following-sea.livejournal.com/501514.html).
> 
> Trigger warnings: Flogging, PTSD flashback, memory of past rape, blood, suicidal ideation

“Eight,” Archie murmured as the cane in Matthews’ hand struck its target again. Another mark of injustice, carved on the innocent in the name of His Majesty’s navy. Another boy, another child, brutalized, while no one intervened. Not that incompetent, spineless fool, Buckland. Not the sycophantic Mr. Bush.

Not even Horatio.

Archie clenched his jaw and shoulders to suppress a shudder. Of course, Horatio wished to obey the chain of command for as long as possible, particularly since he was in as much danger of being beaten with it by that vengeful, bloodthirsty tyrant as poor Wellard. But still, for Horatio to insist to him, to _HIM_ , that it was merely discipline—

“Nine.”

His hands started to tremble as memories he had long hoped were forever locked away began to shake free. He swallowed, as though the mere action were sufficient to push them back to the recesses where they belonged. Not now. Not on this blasted ship, where Sawyer was as hungry for weakness among his officers as the foxhounds on Father’s estate were for their quarry.

“Ten.”

Archie forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply, tried to recall the beautiful hills and lake of the estate that he had once called home, tried to feel the loving caress of Horatio’s hands as they roamed over his body at their last shore leave--

The thwack of wood against flesh. “Eleven.”

Archie’s legs carried him from the scene and to his cabin before he had consciously willed it. He sat down heavily on his cot, his head in his hands, as he tried to regularize his breathing.

Those days were long dead. He had nothing to fear from mere memories. He was a lieutenant now—merely a 4th lieutenant, of course—but an officer nonetheless. There was no excuse for this embarrassing, unmanly behavior. Even young Wellard, withstanding his unjust beating with such stoicism, such bravery, was putting him to shame. He was a fraud, a pathetic, mewling, useless, disappointment of a—

_“--midshipman. Oversleeping? Missing from your watch? Your indolence could have jeopardized the entire ship! What do you have to say for yourself, Mr. Kennedy?”_

_Archie forced his eyes to stay the course instead of dropping under Eccleston’s irate inspection. He swallowed. “I--”_

_A rustle to his right. He glanced over. Simpson had slunk nearer, a menacing, triumphant smirk on his face. Of course that bastard would insist on front-row seats from which to celebrate his triumph. Despite the August heat, Archie became suddenly chilled and forced himself not to shiver. “I – I h-have no excuse, sir.”_

_Eccleston narrowed his eyes at him and took a step closer. “Mr. Kennedy, this behavior is unacceptable. Midshipmen must serve as an example to their men, not lounge about, modeling nothing but dereliction of duty and inveterate lassitude. Birching should teach you a lesson. 12 strokes will do the trick.”_

_Archie’s breath caught in his throat. The instant they made him kiss the gunner’s daughter and forcibly yanked down his breeches, the shameful evidence of Simpson’s abuse--the throbbing injury that had rendered him unable to sit, to sleep, even, apart from the rare moments his exhaustion plastered over the agony--would be laid bare for all to see. His eyelids fluttered as the vitriol, the shouts, the mockery that would rain upon him echoed in his ears. And soon, rough hands would close around his shoulders and shove him into the hold, where he would remain, hated, fitting, and alone, until the rope closed around his neck. He forced himself not to shudder. Perhaps it would be a quick death. And if not, well, there were worse things than death. And, perhaps, if he had some small degree of good fortune left rattling around somewhere, he could drag Simpson down with him. Dying might be a price worth paying if it could but purchase that._

_He glanced at Simpson, who had begun to blanch, his smirk faltering, as even he, dunce though he was, did out the calculation of how this would end. Archie mustered the courage to meet his eyes, a last gesture of defiance before he’d see him in Hell. He braced himself and, head held high, met Eccleston’s eyes._

_“Aye aye, sir.”_

_They led him to the gundeck. The boatswain approached, rattan in hand, and he was shoved rudely over the cannon. His heart hammered in his throat and he felt his legs grow weak with terror at the memory of the last time he was forced onto his stomach, his arse sticking up in the air, bracing for the inevitable humiliation and pain. He closed his eyes and tried not to flinch as hands touched his breeches. Not much longer now—_

_“No need for that. Breeches on,” Eccleston announced awkwardly to the boatswain. Archie glanced up, his entire body frozen in shock. Eccleston looked straight ahead, as though Archie weren’t splayed out in front of him, as powerless as a newborn babe._

_He knew._

_No other explanation was possible._

_He knew. He knew, and he was turning a blind eye. Did Simpson have some hold over him? Over the Captain? Did he not want the scandal of a sodomy conviction on the ship?_

_“Aye aye, sir,” said a gruff voice behind him, and the hands disappeared._

_What must everyone think? Was it such an open secret? Good God, then he truly was Simpson’s molly, and he’d been whored out with the blessings of those who had the power to stop it._

_No one was coming. No one would intervene._

_And not even execution would free him from Simpson’s talons._

_He heard the whoosh of air before the sharp crack filled the air and blinding pain coursed through him. He bit his lip to keep from crying out._

_“One.”_

_Another swoosh, another lance of agony. His lip began to bleed._

_“Two.”_

_A third impact. Lights flashed before his eyes. The searing sting and heat as recent scabs tore open. The world shimmered, then narrowed to a point as his eyes fixed on a small knothole in a board. All else faded into the distance._

_Voices. Numbers. Cracks. Moving air. All far, far away. Below him. Elsewhere. A different world, a different life._

_“Twelve.”_

_“Let that be a lesson to you, Mr. Kennedy.”_

_Hands on his arms. The world shifted and swayed. The knothole disappeared. Stairs. Canvas. A cocoon from which he was doomed to emerge. A caterpillar to the bitter end._

_Nothing would ever change._

_A gentle hand on his shoulder. He blinked as the world wobbled into focus and turned his head. Clayton. Good old Clayton. Not that he ever lifted a hand to intervene. “That’s right, Archie, rest now. You’re not needed on deck until the next bell.”_

_On deck? It almost seemed laughable. Could he even move? He tried to shift his position and whimpered as white hot pain seared through him._

_Clayton winced in sympathy. “Just . . . try to find something to occupy your mind: a task, or your favorite sonnet or soliloquy. It may help pass the time.”_

Time.

Archie came to himself with a gasp, then looked about him. He was in a cot, not a hammock. He knew this cabin, separated by only a thin partition from where his beloved Horatio slept, and the wardroom just outside. He ran a shaking hand over his face and wiped away the tears that had fallen. It was over. Almost a decade had past. Everything had changed.

Or had it? The actors had changed, but the play had not. Sawyer, Hobbs, Randall, Eccleston, Keene, Simpson—a rotting weed by any name would smell as fetid.

He sighed and shook his head. Horatio’s method had failed. He refused to stay silent and let Wellard suffer. And if he became Sawyer’s new target, well, then that was a price he was willing to pay.

Archie set his jaw and slowly rose from the cot. He splashed water on his face to cloak the manner in which he had spent the last several minutes. He straightened his clothes, then his shoulders, and left his cabin to return to the deck before someone would notice his absence.

He stepped out into the sun-soaked deck, half-hoping to see Horatio, and to feel the calming presence of his gaze, and half-dreading the concern that would cloud it the instant Horatio glimpsed his expression. Horatio had worries aplenty without needing to add Archie’s wellbeing to the list. Perhaps they would speak more freely the next time Horatio came off watch.

Instead, Buckland was the first officer he encountered. Archie attempted to avoid eye contact and to plot a course around him without being openly mutinous. Bush, too, he gave a wide berth, though they shared the deck. He didn’t yet trust himself to speak, in case the diatribe he was holding in decided to make itself heard.

His opinion of the second lieutenant plummeted further when he watched the casual indifference with which he greeted Wellard, as the young man stiffly hobbled his way on deck: no sympathy, no compassion, no attempt to help. Archie bit his tongue to keep from saying something he would regret and forced himself not to clench his fists. Open insubordination at this point would help no one.

He had to do something. Wellard needed to hear a friendly voice. But what? He took a few paces towards him, then paused, scanning the deck for some reason to speak to him without rousing suspicion. Archie glimpsed the sandglasses, lying ignored and forgotten, on the table beside Wellard, and suddenly his course was clear.

Archie hardly knew what instructions for the sandglasses he gave to the boy as he walked toward him, desperately hoping his acting prowess from what seemed a lifetime ago still held fast. He wanted to comfort him, to take him far away, safe from all this, to promise him he would never let something so unjust happen again.

But decorum and spies made that impossible. So he gave Wellard all that he had, and hoped he would understand:

“Concentrate on the task in hand,” he murmured. “It’ll help to keep your mind off the pain.”

It wasn’t enough. It could never be enough. But, from the look Wellard gave him, it was sufficient to get him through the watch.

They would survive, one day at a time, until the sand ran out.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I realize that the remixed Firefly quotation ("You know what the chain of command is? It's the chain I go get and beat you with 'til you understand who's in ruttin' command here") is a few hundred years too late for Archie to reference. But, 1. it was too perfect an opportunity to miss; 2. I've always hated the way it so comfortably turned abuse of power and the threat of violence into a joke; and 3. it's the quotation right before Jayne collapsed because Simon drugged him to save the team from his power-hungry actions, so it seemed thematically appropriate for this fic, given the mutiny that happens soon after this scene in the film.


End file.
